


Debts

by strikecommanding



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Creampie, F/M, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Reader-Insert, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-07-15 00:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16052042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikecommanding/pseuds/strikecommanding
Summary: A life for a life. Your father chose to keep his, so now McCree gets to have yours.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a commission piece featuring scrooge!mccree with a fem reader!

You couldn’t stand to see your father further embed himself in an endless cycle of gambling, winning big, swearing to pay off his debts, and losing it all to the cards. At first gambling was a necessary source of income since he was raising you on his own, but then it became an addiction. He couldn’t stop himself, so you did what you could to try to make up the deficit with your own income. But he just kept losing money faster than you could earn it, and you finally decided you’d had enough.

Your heart was as heavy as his debts, but you couldn’t live with him like this any longer. You’d pitched in and tried to help him as much as you could but he seemed beyond saving. For some time now, you’d been putting money aside into a separate account so you could move out and establish your own life, away from him. Once you were settled, you swore to save him from himself.

You never mentioned this to him but you suspected he realized something was up; he wasn’t daft, and the emotional rift had been expanding between you both for some time. So when he pleaded with you to go for a walk with him, just as you had when you were still young and he was still stable, you gave in. Your father seemed to be yearning for the good old days and you couldn’t blame him for it. Often, you wished things could go back to the way they used to be too.

You indulged him in a stroll through the city on a frigid afternoon. A sunless sky hung overhead but it was bright with the promise of snowfall. The wind was chilly as it blew past you and went straight through your sad excuse for a winter coat. You hadn’t been able to afford a thicker one for the season since a majority of your income was going to your father, but you didn’t mention this to him. If it was at all possible, you wanted to enjoy this moment and pretend that everything was normal.

After a few quiet but not uncomfortable minutes of walking seemingly aimlessly, you looked up at him and questioned, “Where are we going?”

His expression was neutral and almost stiff, but you attributed that to the circumstances that seemed to permanently wipe his smile from his face. Not looking directly at you, he said, “We’re visiting someone. Someone who can help me.”

You didn’t know what he meant by that. Maybe a psychologist who could help him acknowledge his problems in the first place, or a financial advisor who could help him get back on his feet. Either way, you were proud that he seemed to be taking steps towards bettering himself and you showed him that with a soft smile and a tight squeeze around his hand. You were too busy worrying over whether he would keep up this path to self-help to notice that he couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye.

The destination you both arrived at was way too imposing a building to be a psychologist’s clinic, so you thought it must have been some sort of financial advising firm instead. Either way it was awfully intimidating, you noted with a slight grimace, as your father led you in and you saw how bare and unwelcoming the interior was. Your father spoke with the pretty but tired-looking receptionist in a hushed tone you couldn’t make out, and then you were both directed to wait in a large office that was just the slightest bit more personalized than its all-encompassing surroundings.

The large desk before you boasted a name placard that read “J. MCCREE” and not much else. There were no trinkets or frames that contained precious photos of family, nothing that gave you any hint as to the kind of person this J. McCree was. The only thing that made this room feel a bit more personal than the area you’d just come from was a shiny golden pistol on display in front of the large window behind the desk.

Because only you and your father occupied this room for the time being, you assumed you were both waiting for the owner of this office to arrive. In the meantime the silence made you uneasy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. Your heart was racing in a chest cavity that suddenly felt much too tight as an inexplicable sense of foreboding rattled your bones. Too dry to move, your lips remained pursed in a tight, thin line as you attempted to keep your overactive mind at bay.

Eventually the heavy door behind you opened, but you found that you couldn’t bear to turn around and see who had entered. Instead, you watched from the corner of your eye as your father straightened up and put on that strained smile of his, the one he only wore during intensely uncomfortable social interactions. Rising slightly out of his chair, he shook the hand of the man who’d just walked in. His left arm was prosthetic from the elbow down, and it was outfitted with a gold trim similar to the color you’d observed on the man’s gun.

Your chin remained firmly tucked into your chest, but your eyes peeked up to get a look at this guy. You immediately noticed the snow that dusted his cloak and top hat and realized he must have been caught in the inclement weather. The man shook off the powdery snow before raising his eyes up to you. He removed his hat, revealing to you a head of scruffy gray hair and a face so ruggedly handsome you would have blushed if your blood didn’t feel like it was frozen in your veins.

Mr. McCree removed his cloak with a flourish and placed it on the back of his chair before donning a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. He was looking mostly at your father, but you could see him glancing in your direction from time to time. “How have you been, sir? This your daughter?”

Your father nodded quietly and looked at you. “Introduce yourself, sweetheart.”

You willed yourself to lift your eyes to Mr. McCree, who was staring down at you with something of a smug, satisfied smile. Without the cloak covering half of his torso, you could see just how masculine and imposing his build was. His muscles practically strained against his white dress shirt, which was unbuttoned just enough to give you the tiniest peek at a patch of thick chest hair. Your blood flow must have regulated now that you could feel your face burning as you gave him your name, and you swore you saw his smile widen into a smirk in response to the red staining your cheeks.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he replied, his voice rumbling like thunder. Turning his attention back to your father, he suggested, “Why don’t you step out for a moment?”

Your father stood but hesitated to leave right away, pointedly looking back at you. Finally, he placed a firm hand on your shoulder and squeezed you for a moment before exiting the room. That Mr. McCree requested a moment alone with you when it was your father who had the gambling problem struck you as odd, but you still felt too stiff to question it. Instead you lifted your eyes to him as he rounded the corner of his desk and leaned against the edge, looking you up and down as he lifted a cigar to his mouth.

He struck a match but paused in lighting his cigar, first searching your eyes for an objection. “You mind?”

You did, truly, but you didn’t feel brave enough to say that. So you just shook your head and shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling very exposed in front of this man despite your winter clothing. There was something about the way he looked at you that was slimy, like he was undressing you with his eyes. Something dangerous, too, rested behind that lazy and hedonistic stare of his but again, you weren’t brave enough to try to put a name to it.

Mr. McCree took a long drag of his cigar before breathing out plumes of gray smoke, resembling a chimney on a cold day like this. These huffs and puffs were the only noises to exist between you both for some time since neither of you broke the silence, and you wondered if he was ever going to speak or if he just wanted to keep staring at you. Finally the tension was too much and you were about to say something, but Mr. McCree beat you to it.

“I reckon that’s enough time,” he sniffed, putting out his cigar in a nearby ashtray. You looked up at him, confused, but immediately backed into your chair when he suddenly advanced on you. His hands darted out to grip the armrests, narrowly missing your wrists when you pulled them into your lap. He leaned over you and you could smell the stink of smoke and alcohol mingling with his cheap cologne. His gaze was more dangerous than leering now as he murmured, “Your daddy’s long gone by now, girl. Walked right out and didn’t look back.”

The warmth that filled your cheeks abundantly at first seemed to drain from your body the moment he said that. His chilling words in combination with how he practically caged you to your chair using his own body made your chest heave with increasingly panicked breaths. The excitement in his eyes nearly made you sick.

“The man had to pay off his debt somehow. Didn’t have enough money so he paid up some other way,” Mr. McCree breathed as he leaned in close enough for you to feel the tips of his hair tickling your face. “It was his life or yours. Guess what he chose.”

“No-” you sobbed, voice terribly small and broken. The moment you opened your mouth he moved in to cover your lips with his own, forcing you to taste the smoke and ash on his tongue. Your hands finally flew into action as he bore his weight down on you, but trying to push back a man his size was like trying to move a mountain. You cried harder when the kiss became more aggressive and when he started to put his hands on you. “ _No_ -”

Mr. McCree backed off suddenly, not by your request but because the door behind you opened. Once you had enough room you gathered your legs against your small, trembling body, trying to regulate your breathing and silence your cries. The tension in the room was palpable when a soft voice, that of the receptionist who met you and your father earlier, spoke up. “S… Sir, I have a client waiting for you. Shall I send him in?”

“No,” he said coolly, as if nothing were out of sorts. Briefly he glanced down at you before looking back up at his receptionist. “Cancel all my appointments for today. I’ll be working on something from home.”

\---

Still shell-shocked from the abrupt realization that your father sold you to pay off his debts, you went along relatively quietly as Mr. McCree ushered you into his car and had his driver take you both to his home. For a man who made as much as he did, he lived surprisingly frugally. His home was by no means rundown, but it was small. Maybe it was bigger inside than it appeared on the outside, but you didn’t have much time to look around the rest of the house before you were forced straight into the bedroom.

There, he picked up right where he left off in his office before you were both interrupted. You couldn’t fight him as he shoved you up against the wall and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you ravenously and hungrily. Your feet were practically dangling off of the ground with how he had you pinned, and the grim reminder of just how large he was in comparison to you made you think twice about trying to resist him.

So when he finally let you go with the simple order of “Strip”, you obeyed him. Your body was weak and shaking as you stood before him, slowly peeling back every layer of your winter outfit until you were bare. He’d been sitting on the edge of his bed to watch you before cocking his head in an appraising manner. “Pretty as a picture,” he drawled, “but you’re missin’ something.”

You tried to shrink back when he stood suddenly and advanced on you, but that just left you once again trapped between the wall and his bulk. He removed his belt so he could wrap it around your slender neck instead, though there was quite a gap between the leather and your flesh due to his sheer size. To get better use out of it, he yanked back and upwards so the pressure was applied just below your chin. Twisted delight spread over his features when he watched your tongue spill out over your bottom lip as your chest heaved for breath. You dropped down to your knees before him once he finally let you go.

“Not bad, but I’ll get you a proper collar real soon. Maybe that’ll be your gift for the holidays,” he mused, reaching down to pick your chin up and have you look at him. You watched as his other hand pulled down the zipper of his slacks and immediately felt tears pool in the corners of your eyes. “For now, though, I got better methods to take your breath away.”

Your body went rigid when his cock, already hard and leaking, fell in front of your face. You knew what he wanted you to do but you were hesitant to obey, so he must have figured that you needed a little more incentive.

Moving his cloak aside, he gave you a good look at the golden gun from his office now holstered snugly against his thigh. You were terrified enough just seeing it there but then he pulled it out and pressed the barrel to your temple. The cool metal was like a shock against your skin as you jolted back with a yelp; your reaction only encouraged him to cock it. His gaze was unflinching as he watched your wide eyes stare down the barrel of his gun. “You know, fear is an excellent motivator for success. Motivated your daddy enough to do anything he could to survive,” he paused and guided his gun to brush your hair out of your face so he could get a better look at the tears rolling down your cheeks. “Show me you’re willing to do the same.”

Now you didn’t hesitate as you took the tip of his cock into your mouth, rolling your tongue around the heavy, velvety head. You didn’t quite know what you were doing but the presence of a gun pointed between your eyes made you realize action was far better than inaction. Mr. McCree hummed praisingly as your tongue stroked against the thick vein on the underside of his shaft, so you carried on like that.

Still holding the gun against your head, he used his free hand to pet your head fondly as he sang his praises for you. “You know, sweetheart, this little deal between me and your daddy was a long time coming. The second he showed me your pictures, I was smitten. And now you’re mine.”

Hearing more about this twisted deal in which you were the currency brought more tears to your eyes, but you didn’t stop sucking him off. Salty tears rolled past your lips and into your mouth, mingling with the taste of Mr. McCree on your tongue. He cooed and used his thumb to wipe some of your tears away.

“Oh hush, no tears now. You’re better off with me anyway. I’m gonna take good care of you,” he promised, finally relenting by taking a step back and putting his gun down on a nearby table. You eyed the firearm warily like you were afraid he would reach for it again at any moment, but your attention was back on Mr. McCree when he grabbed your wrist and led you to the bed. Stroking himself gently, he commanded you, “Get on all fours.”

You capitulated, crawling onto the bed and shyly presenting your ass to him. Your backside fit perfectly into the curves of his pelvis as he rubbed the length of his cock against your pussy, which had become shamefully wet from his perverse attention. He carried on like this until he felt he was sufficiently lubricated, at which point he lined up the tip against your entrance and speared into you.

The force of his initial thrust pushed you forward slightly, but you were pulled back closer to him when he grabbed onto your waist. Your resistant walls needed a moment to adjust, a moment that Mr. McCree wouldn’t be giving you. He started a rough pace right away, fucking you with the same insatiable hunger with which he’d kissed you. You gripped the sheets beneath you for purchase and tried to conceal your cries, but he seemed intent on pounding all those noises out of you. What started as soft whimpers and squeals eventually escalated to loud sobs. Hearing you scream for him seemed to egg him on further as he grunted, “Damn, darling, what other kinds of sounds do you make?”

His metal hand found its way between your thighs, roughly stroking at your engorged clit and getting a shriek of both pleasure and surprise out of you. You hated that this man was making you feel good, but your body told you that you’d hate it more if you denied him. As much as you wanted to tighten your trembling thighs around his wrist to get him to stop, your body wanted to reach this peak more.

Mr. McCree’s breath was hot against the nape of your neck. “ _Fuck_ , you’re tight. ‘M gonna fill you up… Gonna make sure you ain’t ever gonna leave me.”

His erratic movements built up to one final deep thrust that had his cock pressed flush against your cervix. You could feel him spilling inside of you, could feel that hot fluid painting your walls white and rushing to fill your womb. Knowing you were being impregnated by a man you didn’t want should have been revolting, but the feeling of it was just what you needed to fall over the edge of release.

Breathless and shuddering in the wake of your orgasm, you could do little more than lie there in silence. So Mr. McCree spoke for you: “Oh, I’m gonna take good care of you, sugar. You’ll want for nothing.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was commissioned to write a continuation of this piece :3

You often thought back to the day you became Mr. McCree’s property, and his chilling remark that greatly contrasted the liquid heat that painted your insides. _You’ll want for nothing._ It came with the implication of luxury, which you didn’t necessarily want but knew he was more than capable of delivering. He was in the business of loaning sorry souls just enough money to get them back on their feet, only to swoop in and take everything from them when they couldn’t cough up what they owed. Your father was just one of many desperate clients who contributed to his dirty wealth.

But he was fantastically stingy with his money. The room he stashed you away in could hardly be described as such; it was more of an extra closet adjacent to his quarters, and it was just spacious enough to accommodate a mattress. Though your living space was depressingly bleak, you greatly preferred it over the alternative of sleeping in Mr. McCree’s bed. Spending any amount of time with him made you sick for a variety of reasons.

There was the obvious disgust inspired by his primary use for you: an outlet for him to get some sloppy and rough stress relief. In his eyes, you existed solely to look pretty and get him off, a feat he would achieve through increasingly creative and humiliating ways. Just as your first time with him, he enjoyed waving his gun around to the effect of making your heart race. But overusing it would have desensitized you, so he apparently saved it only for special occasions. Otherwise, he was just as happy to brandish his gaudy belt and use it as a convenient riding crop to keep your ass perpetually flushed and sore. More recently he’d taken to using his glib tongue to get a reaction out of you. That thick Southern accent gritty with the damage of too many cigars over the years managed to dig deep under your skin with a single drawl, _I’m your Daddy now._

There wasn’t a moment spent with him that you wouldn’t expect to be twisted and perverse, and that was why you preferred to be holed up in your tiny little room. At least, you had at first. Lately you’d been experiencing a unique and consequently terrifying problem you didn’t know how to handle.

Mr. McCree wasn’t all cruelty and hard edges. He was undoubtedly a sadist, but he was also an older man who just didn’t seem to have the boundless energy to expend on being wicked at all times. It was in those moments that you experienced some softness, tenderness even, and they confused you even more than the question of why you had to end up in this predicament at all. Whenever he toyed with you or used you like a closed fist, you knew you hated him. But these uncharacteristic instances of what you dared to call peace were a bit of a gray area.

There were times when, once he was finished with you, he didn’t lock you back up in your room. Instead, as he lay in repose after having had you ride him like your life depended on it (and it most likely did), he’d slowly turn his head over and just stare at you. There was no devilry or lust in his gaze, but something you’d regrettably identified as fondness. Before you could skittishly turn away and deny to yourself having ever seen such a warm expression on his typically cold face, Mr. McCree would reach one long, thick arm to wrap around your body and bring you in close. You would have no choice but to be cuddled into his side, close enough to card your fingers through the coarse hair on his chest before finally settling against his tempering heartbeat. On one particular evening, you’d even felt him plant a tender kiss against the crown of your head. You remembered how that simple act had been enough to make your affection-starved heart do cartwheels, and how your behavior around him started to change as a result. You didn’t think you would ever like it when he used his gun or his belt against you, but the burn of his unusual fancies was always soothed by the balm of his simply being there, your only companion. Hearing him call himself your Daddy was no longer repulsive, but a comfort.

When you became aware of yourself and the way you were starting to think about him, you were shocked into preferring solitude. The isolation may have amplified your confusing thoughts, but at least it meant you weren’t with him and potentially capable of doing something you might regret, like showing him your affection in turn.

Unfortunately, the prior night saw Mr. McCree beckoning you out of your room and into his bed. He’d looked more tired than usual, as if the day had been particularly taxing on him, and the way he handled you served as a reflection of this. He had no desire for kinky foreplay or rough sex. All he wanted was to have you warm his cock while he held you tight against his chest, occasionally moving his hips like he wanted to come before eventually settling back down, content just to hold onto you. His body heat and the fuzzy warmth of having someone hold you like a lover was enough to send you dozing off, and you were only dimly aware of him eventually finishing inside of you by the late hours of the night. You fell asleep together, sticky but satisfied.

When you woke up the next morning, you didn’t have time to regret letting yourself feel comforted by him. Mr. McCree was awake ahead of you and already forcing you towards his stiff, leaking cock. You looked up to see him lighting a cigar at eight in the morning.

In a scratchy, sleep-laced voice that you hated for making you shiver, he commanded simply, “Gimme some sugar.”

Still a bit drowsy yourself, you were slow as you moved to take him into your mouth. Since Mr. McCree continued leisurely puffing his cigar while lying back, unbothered, you figured it was okay to start off at a slow pace. You bobbed your head back and forth lazily, swallowing up only the head as your hand picked up the pace by stroking his shaft. He seemed fine with this until he suddenly shifted into a more upright position.

“You forget how I like it, little girl?”

By the time you realized your err in judgment, he already had his free hand on the back of your head. One abrupt shove filled your throat with his girth, making you retch and slap frantically at his thighs for reprieve. He indulged you for a moment, even if only to gather your wrists together and hold them tight so they wouldn’t obstruct him in going all in a second time. Now all you could do was choke and cry as he fucked your throat savagely and stretched your lips obscenely wide around his fat cock. Your jaw ached and you looked up at him with the most pitiful gaze you could muster, hoping it would appeal to the softer side you knew he had and convince him to start being a little bit gentler with you.

Any softness he might have shown you last night was now gone, and in its place was the cruelty and sadism you’d come to expect from Mr. McCree. Seeing your expression only made the corners of his lips perk up in a mean smirk, looking more like a snarl with his teeth holding his cigar in place, as he began punching his hips upward to force himself even deeper. Feeling another retch rise up out of your throat made you will your body to relax itself and try to take him more smoothly, solely for your own comfort rather than his pleasure. But he was hell-bent on making you feel every inch of him as painfully as possible, perhaps foreshadowing what he intended to do to other parts of your body if he didn’t finish now.

Thankfully it seemed this was only meant to be a quickie before he left you for work, as he only needed one more thrust to the back of your throat to drop his load. Before you could milk him entirely, he began slowly pulling himself out, leaving a trail of white along your tongue and spurting out the last few drops on your face. You felt so dirty and humiliated and the day had only just started. As he got out of bed and wrapped a towel around his waist, you busied yourself with staring mousily at the soiled sheets beneath you. You couldn’t bring yourself to lift your eyes to him.

You only looked up when he wanted you to, his fingers lifting your chin and drawing your gaze up to his. He looked so much older and authoritative when he peered down at you through the gold-rimmed glasses low on the bridge of his nose (more so than usual, at least), and it almost made you shrink into yourself. As much as you told yourself you hated Mr. McCree, you were still scared of him. You were sensitive to anything you thought might incur his bad attitude and prolonged, steady eye contact was one of those things. In the past he’d admonished you for being cheeky or defiant by apparently looking at him like that, but now he seemed to want your undivided attention. He suddenly lowered himself to your level and you flinched, unsure what to expect but certain it couldn’t be pleasant. The warm weight of his lips against your forehead surprised you enough to look back up, and you were face-to-face with that expression of fondness that made your heart twist in confusion.

“Come on. Let Daddy clean you up.”

Hearing him say that after he made a mess of you should have bolstered your hatred for him, but the fact of the matter was that simply having him kiss you so tenderly was enough to make you feel light and airy, like you were on cloud nine. You wouldn’t admit that you were grateful to have his weight to lean on and ground you as he led you to the bathroom, which was just as small and plainly stocked as the rest of his home. It was efficient, not luxurious - a common theme that defined Mr. McCree’s lifestyle. Likewise, while he absolutely could afford morally gray caretakers to tend to you and the upkeep of his home in general, he opted for shouldering all your care by himself. You’d always known it was likely just another way of being tight-fisted with his finances, or keeping his possession of you a secret by involving no one but himself. But lately, you found yourself succumbing to the idea that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be your sole caretaker for more affectionate reasons. As he shampooed your hair and washed your body, you tried to shove that wishful thinking out of your mind.

After wrapping a towel around your body, he walked you back into his room and ushered you to the bed. You sat there quietly and simply watched him get dressed, as clothes were a luxury you hadn’t seen much of since becoming Mr. McCree’s property. You figured this must have been a result of both his perversion and his thriftiness.

When he moved to stand in front of you, you slowly lifted your eyes to his face. Lately he’d been neglecting shaving, which resulted in a handsome shadow along his jawline. You idly thought about how you kind of liked the scratch of it against your skin whenever he planted a kiss or a bite on you, and it was as if he knew what you were thinking when he leaned in to do just that. Your eyes fluttered shut when he kissed you right between them, lingering just long enough for you to begin reading into it. But then he abruptly pulled back and straightened up to his full height, tipping the brim of his hat to you as a gesture of farewell. “I’m off. Be a good girl while I’m gone.”

You nodded silently as he stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. As you listened to his retreating footsteps and played with the hem of the towel still wrapped around you, you came to a startling realization: he hadn’t forced you back into your room. You were in the main room, his bedroom, which couldn’t be locked from the outside. Which meant you could just get up and leave. You didn’t know if you could make it as far as the front door, but just knowing you could even go out into the _hallway_ was a big deal for you.

You couldn’t understand. Had Mr. McCree gotten sloppy? Was his work so taxing on him that he was starting to forget things? Never mind him, why hadn’t _you_ noticed until just now? You supposed you’d been so caught up in his unusual sweetness towards you and your own resulting feelings of self-loathing that this uncharacteristic skip in his routine went right over your head. Now, saddled with this information, you sat rigid as stone as you waited for him to inevitably return and lock you up, maybe even berate you to get out some of his frustration over such an immense oversight.

But the storming footsteps, the string of curses directed either at you or himself, or even the both of you, never came. It seemed Mr. McCree really had gone ahead to work and you were left to your own devices.

Of course, the idea of leaving this house was the first thought to cross your mind. But with it came the worry of who you would turn to, where you would go, and how you would ensure Mr. McCree would never find you. Following that last thought was one that was particularly distressing for all the wrong reasons. The part of you that had really warmed up to Mr. McCree in spite of it all felt guilty about leaving him. Instead of exploring it any further, you took that as the sign that you _really_ had to get the hell out of here while you still had the chance.

You couldn’t go out in just a towel, so you clumsily went through Mr. McCree’s drawer and took one of his shirts. Unsurprisingly, it practically enveloped your comparatively small frame, but at least it kept you modest. You were tentative as you approached the door, lightly pressing your fingertips against the knob as if it were booby trapped. When nothing happened, you wrapped your trembling hand around it and turned.

The sight of a totally empty hallway was so mundane it scared you. Any second now, Mr. McCree would pop up in front of you, reveal that this was some sort of test and he was just waiting for you to fail so he could forcefully put you back in your place. But, even after a few minutes of silence and motionlessness on your part, no one appeared. Letting go of the breath you didn’t know you were holding, you took a few slow steps forward.

Since the house wasn’t big, you easily found your way down the stairs and to the foyer. It looked exactly as it had the first day he dragged you here with him, while you were still shell-shocked by the fact that your own father sold you to wipe his debts away. The rest of the house wasn’t much to look at either, even though Mr. McCree could easily afford a bit more grandeur. Regardless, the only thing you had your sights set on was the front door.

The closest thing to shoes that was available to you was a pair of house slippers, which you found next to a nearby umbrella holder. They were big, but better than nothing. With a deep breath, you unlocked the front door and took your first step outside in what must have been months.

You first noticed the snow. It dumbfounded you, honestly; it had been about mid-December when Mr. McCree first took you away, and all this time you thought it had been months since then. The fact that it was still snowing meant it must have only been January, or February the latest. But you didn’t have much time to think about this when you lowered your gaze and your heart dropped to your feet like a boulder off a cliff.

Mr. McCree’s back was to you, broad and strong, as he sat on the porch while smoking a cigar. The smoke rose up in the cold air, and he soon stood with it now that you were here with him. Carelessly, he tossed his cigar aside and you watched its light get extinguished by the falling snow. When you returned your attention to him, the disappointment on his face hit you like a punch to the gut. “Oh, honey.”

You didn’t know why, but you ran. Not even past him, but back into the house. The sudden burst in high-energy activity shocked your surely atrophying muscles as you sprinted back up the stairs, back into his bedroom, and back into your room. You knew it. You knew this was some sort of test, and you’d failed, and now you were in for a world of pain.

It didn’t take long for Mr. McCree’s heavy footsteps to follow after you, though he clearly wasn’t moving as quickly or urgently as you had. But he wasn’t exactly carefree either. He seemed to move with purpose and precision, and you were so focused on the sound that having him abruptly throw your door open made you jump back into the corner. He had with him a sturdy-looking collar that was obviously intended for you. Still wearing that same expression of disappointment that set you off in the first place, he commanded, “C’mere.”

You thought about resisting him at first, but you were so caught up in your own head that you couldn’t even react once he advanced on you and wrapped it around your throat. In equally humiliating fashion, he was also ready with a chain leash that he used to make you crawl out of your room, like a dog. Once he had you close enough to where he wanted you, he sat on the edge of the bed and wrangled you up into his lap despite your kicks and flails.

When you felt how firmly his hand secured you by your lower back, you finally settled. Mr. McCree rubbed your skin idly before letting out a heavy sigh. “You’ve been so good for me lately I thought it was only right to buy you a present. But I’m the type of man who wants to ensure his investments pay off, so I had to give ya a little test first.”

Your breath hitched when his hand dropped from your back to your supple ass.

“Sorry, sweet pea. Instead of a present, I guess this has to be a punishment.”

He urged your ass up higher, leaving you vulnerable to the mercy of his prosthetic hand. You anticipated the sting of the hard tech against your flesh any second, but the way he shifted his position told you you were in store for something much more painful. Rather than begin spanking you right away, he moved to remove his belt and bunch it up in his fist. You could manage only one frantic glance over your shoulder before he yanked on your collar and forced all the breath out of you, just as he brought his other hand down and smacked you precisely with the gaudy buckle of his belt. The unique sting made you whine and try to flatten yourself further against him, as if to try to hide from any more assaults. This only prompted him to tug your chain even harder until you returned to your original position. You were rigid, but exactly how he wanted you. Muttering a string of curses under his breath, he continued spanking you until your bottom and your face were as bright red as cherries.

When he apparently finished, you built up the courage to look back at him and try to get a feel for what he was thinking. You had seen Mr. McCree when he was angry with you, and the expression he wore now wasn’t quite indicative of that. He was obviously upset, but the whole affair didn’t seem as one-sided as it was when he was simply mad. He was disappointed in you, and you were disappointed in yourself too.

Before you could question why exactly you were so upset over having tried to escape your captor, he jerked his wrist and yanked your chain in such a way to remind you of its existence. He changed positions so that you were bent over the mattress while he started to mount you, the harsh fabric of his pants rubbing quite deliberately against your fresh wounds. It hurt, but you didn’t dare try to voice that.

His free hand began unzipping his pants while he tugged on your chain until you got the idea to look back at him. “You understand why this is happening, don’t you?”

Still feeling too small for words, you could only nod. He returned the gesture more confidently before relaxing your chain, allowing you to look straight ahead and listen in silence as he coated the head of his dick with your lewd arousal. You shouldn’t have been getting off to your punishment, yet you could feel your own fluids sliding down your inner thigh. Your emotions were obviously all over the place but your body knew exactly what it wanted.

He sank in so easily and the stretch burned so good, your body hardly registered this as a punishment. Mr. McCree moved slowly at first, one hand on your waist and the other foregoing the chain to instead pull directly on your collar. The tightness around your throat made you gasp and wheeze, but hearing what he said next really took your breath away. “I just want to be a good man for you, sweetheart. But you won’t let me do that. I can’t give you love… if you won’t give me total obedience.”

His pace changed now to one that was clearly interested in his own pleasure, and not yours. Every smack of his blunt head against your cervix made you wince, but it didn’t distract you from finally reconciling your conflicting feelings towards Mr. McCree. All this time you’d put such a premium on how his actions affected you, whether you were hating him for how callous he was or confused by his occasional sweetness. You seldom took a step back and examined your own behavior towards him. Maybe you had been defiant and a bit of a brat; trying to make a break for it the one time he gave you reprieve from your small, uncomfortable room certainly didn’t make matters any better. This odd relationship you shared was a give and take. You had to make more of an effort to give the affection you wanted to receive wholly.

The hand gripping your collar moved to your neck and chin, dipping you back so his lips could meet yours in a sloppy but passionate kiss. Your backside burned from the stimulation of his pelvis against it as he continued driving into you in search of his own release. He hadn’t adjusted to accommodate you, so you tried to grind your hips back in such a way to get him into a more mutually beneficial position. When Mr. McCree realized what you were doing, he pulled away to look down at you with intrigue. “You wanna show me what a good girl you can be?”

You nodded sincerely, ready to be everything he wanted if it meant you could experience his elusive soft side without guilt or apprehension.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! more of my work is featured @ strikecommanding.tumblr.com <3


End file.
